W Mario Sorrenti May 2007
So my insomniatic ponderings (pretty sure I made up a word there, which I deem ok for all English majors) led me to wonder about things I cannot answer yet again. I have been reading Blindness which led to me thinking about what it would be like to exist without sight. I know plenty of people live with blindness everyday but it is something I feel you can’t help but take for granted when you have it, being such an integral part of everything we do in our day to day life. Imagining not being able to do stupid things like watch law and order marathons all day or bad reality TV blows my mind, which I know is sad, petty and self-involved but…me in a nutshell. What has really got me thinking though is trying to get a grasp on what someone who has been blind since birth might dream about. It keeps me up trying to imagine an entire world in your head when you have never seen anything. With no schema with which to ascribe colors or characteristics with where do you start? Those of us who can see can never really imagine anything completely original because everything we imagine has some influence from objects we know. It is difficult to articulate even, I get so frustrated trying to put myself in that kind of place. Even colors are foreign, when the blind dream do they see colors and are just unable to ascribe a name to them? Imagine not knowing what people look like, animals or even yourself, you can’t. Or are these things innate in our brain? We know dreaming is mandatory for the brain to stay healthy, thus every functioning human must dream, but without a visual schema what is a dream? Well, unable to even begin to sort out answers I head off to dream myself remembering not to even take dreaming for granted. But who knows? Maybe we are the ones missing out having to dream of only familiar things and never seeing anything truly unique. Good-night universe.
Love is not something I have any desire to write about. It is too broad and intangible. I suppose it could also be classified as subjective…but can it really? I don’t say that because I have an opinion either way, it seems though on paper it is fairly universal in its experience and symptoms. But I suppose putting love on paper is what gets one into pathetic messes, to be more specific extracting love from paper. I think literature should be banned from little girls with over active imaginations, it is not safe and seeps a melancholy into their souls that only hinders them in their adult interactions. It must be amazing to be one of those girls who claim to be in love all the time, with every glance. To not regard it as sacred, practically unattainable and something to be earned, to not have it built up in your head as a grand adventure. But any lit nerd worth their salt, no matter how cynical still believes in amazing, world ending love. What is that? I honestly don’t know and doubt I ever will. I do know to be really in love even only once must make that person one of the luckiest people in world. Whether love is an all consuming passion or a constant steady drum of contentment I cannot say, but I didn’t want to write about love. It is too slippery a creature to wrap one’s mind around.
Steven Meisel
There is something about menswear on women that has me completely obsessed. Does that make me a lesbian…maybe. Don’t get me wrong, I enjoy menswear on men as well but truth be told what a man is wearing isn’t really what sells me…hmmm….. Unfortunately for me the women who seem to carry it off the best are of course the effortlessly chic tall slim model girls whose bodies have the ability to make all clothes fall on them flawlessly. Even still my wardrobe overhaul for spring is definitely going to be all blazers and tailored slacks. I am kind of going for a 1920’s England-New England Great Gatsby feel. You know, calling everyone “old sport” and “chap” and such, a cigarette carelessly withering away in my left hand while the right rest just so in my pants pocket (because it could be awkward resting it in someone else’s…). I have already invested in the perfect Italian oxfords, now I just need a little spring and summer in my life so I can longingly gaze out from the east egg without freezing my ass off. January is not the time of year to pine on a pier in just a sport coat; one can catch quite a chill. Though, I am not ruling out the very lovely and romantic underwear trend, excuse me ma’am your knickers are showing.
I am obsessed with cellos and umbrellas. There, I said it. I have never even attempted to play the cello and I hate carrying umbrellas. I subscribe to the school of “never an umbrella in Paris” set forth for eternity in Sabrina, considering I always pretend I am in Paris logically one can see there is no need for one to escort a parapluie in my world. Yet, there is something indescribably poetic and sensual about these two things which my mind for some reason has decided to lump together in column A of objects to which my mind wanders for absolutely no reason. The thought of two unknown lovers meeting in the shelter of their own private canopy, or the mass of the cello resting between ones legs emitting the saddest sound your ears have ever been privy to while aesthetically projecting regal mass and power. The dichotomy of power and sadness in the cello has always intrigued me and sucked me into this different world. Which is where these two seemingly different objects seem to intertwine in the catacombs of my twisted psyche; in this cello narrated fantasy world of mine where people stroll down the streets in 1920’s Chanel with long elegant umbrellas curving around their own little self indulgent microcosms.
One Year! Yay! Scepter is officially a year old, none the wiser for it unfortunately. I wanted to write something really fantastic but I can’t think of anything awesome so go watch a Lady Gaga video and pretend I directed it, and made the shoes. Wow, I am amazing, what craftsmanship.
I am trying to save money…but should I buy these? Or save my money for my hair or just save my money in general? Man, life is so hard. I am kind of obsessed with them, I feel my self control cracking.
I spent some time today eyeing a cigarette in its prime on a horizontal path awaiting a perpendicular step to supply its demise. After hundreds of unknowing feet blindly passed by, the unhappy task fell upon me.
Ok, I know this is becoming a bit sporadic but I swear I have not abandoned Scepter. But I thought if nothing else I could reveal some of my ridiculousness here in NY until I get paid so I can stock up on some new, ummm, inspiration…haha. For example today, my day off, I pretty much peed my pants. That is if my urine was indeed champagne. Sadly, I am not so blessed. Let me explain, being my day off of course I had to have a glass of bubbly. So the roomy and I trekked to the city for a little outdoor market, late lunch and of course a glass of sparkling. Where we were waited on by a girl who I swore was Chanel Iman’s little sister! It was especially awkward since I kept staring at her prompting her to believe we were in need of something. Yet when she checked I confirmed “no, I do not need anything” and “yes, I am creepy…” The peril of lunchtime bubbly though (oh God! There are perils?), is the insatiable desire for more, more and more. So being the brilliant ladies we are we got a couple mini bottles and stashed them in my satchel trying desperately not to shake them up as we headed to the movie theatre. Well armed with homemade whoopee pies from the market and two bottles of Chandon (we are trying to be frugal mind you…) we approached the theatre on a Wednesday night only to find a ridiculous line. Inquiring to the necessity of this pack of swooning imbeciles it was immediately confirmed this line is not for us, New Moon-ies only…Jesus. In the theatre finally ready for coming attractions (my fav) I skillfully removed our corks with almost complete silence. Mad skills, I know. So with my Chandon tucked safely between my thighs I proceed to drop in my straw (don’t judge) to enjoy with the pies for the duration of the film. Well, much as everything else in my life things did not go according to plan. Almost immediately I felt the cool, sticky glory of sparkling wine running into my lap. Yes, I just sat there calmly while my jeans filled with foam tumbling in abundance from the lip of the bottle. Like a trouper I calmly asked my roomy to grab some napkins as I sat cold and embarrassed like a toddler just weaned from the security of a diaper. I was able to enjoy the movie through my wine soaked crotch. I now have some very drunk pants. But I suppose it was karma considering last night I did spray a beer into a customer’s face. Faaaan-tastic.
(zappos.com)
Apparently Sketchers at least has a sense of humor. Despite the fact that I hate sketchers because all they do is rip off shoes from other designers (much like Steve Madden…) and primarily they are ugly they potentially have a keen eye for public satire. In all reality they are just trying to be hip I’m sure but it amuses me all the same that they have a generic hipster boot they call “indie rock”. I like to pretend that the boot is representative of the clone indie rock hipster culture, ironically produced by a company that mass produces copies of other people’s designs. But it is just a hilarious coincidence for me to revel in. For the record I also developed a theory that Paris Hilton started calling everyone “bitch” to dilute the negative connotation attributed to the word by undermining the patriarchal dialogue in the western world. But that was just a dream; my thoughts ran away with me. But curious enough it kind of did that…does lack of intention lessen the result?
(Italian Vogue)
